


Slow and Steady

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Childbirth, Children, Comedy, Family Drama, Family Fluff, M/M, Male Lactation, Medical Examination, Mpreg, Newborn Children, Original Character(s), Post Mpreg, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Postpartum Adventures, Romance, Series, Short & Sweet, the simple life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: Moments from the first twenty-four hours of Lincoln's life.Bucky had little sisters. He has experience. Steve has read every book, every website, asked every question, and watched every video. He has all the information he could possibly need.But none of that matters. Just like children, parents have to crawl before they walk and walk before they run. Once Steve and Bucky shut the door to their quarters and find themselves alone with their newborn son, bearing all responsibility for his well-being and happiness, they know nothing. They're terrified. In spite of their best efforts and careful preparation, they're treading water.





	1. 23 Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is based on a paragraph in "Jump the Picket Fence" which mentioned Lincoln's first day home:
> 
> _**I know. God, Lincoln, I know. I brought you home to that place. That’s where I had the best days of my whole life. I remember - Bucky leaned on my arm and I carried you through the door. You weren’t even twelve hours old. We sat down on the couch and the three of us stared at each other like morons until we were all sobbing. Lincoln, we didn’t know what to do with you. We cried until we laughed. We thought your real parents were going to show up to take you home any minute. We were terrified. But we turned off our phones and locked the door, because no one was coming to get you. You were ours forever. Bucky played with your hair for an hour. You should have seen him - he couldn’t believe you were real. I’d read every baby book under the sun, but I sat down on the floor of your room and Googled “how to take care of a baby.” I walked you up and down that hallway when you cried at night. I wore the living room carpet thin from walking you in circles around the couch. That carpet has stains from the frosting on your first birthday cake.** _ **Steve squeezes his son’s shoulder. “So will I.”**
> 
> A Tumblr anon asked if there might ever be a one-shot that covered this brief period of time, and I happened to have the day off for Memorial Day. It seemed appropriate to post something. Of course, Lincoln's birthday was the 29th, so while I'm starting today, I'll be posting little snippets until Wednesday.
> 
> This is completely self-indulgent fluff, because I needed a little break from all the plot and angst and violence in "Jump the Picket Fence." I do not apologize. I may come back and edit later (I'm sure there will be typos and poor phrasing here and there) but for now, this is my little Memorial Day celebration and I'm going to enjoy it. <3

**MAY 29, 2017. 10:20 AM**

 

_ “I think he knows we’re going to spoil him rotten.” _

_ “How about you?” Steve asks, finally tearing his eyes away from his son long enough to get a look at Bucky. His hair is a mess and his eyes are a little puffy and dark with exhaustion, but Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seemed this happy or handsome. “How do you feel?” _

_ Bucky’s gaze wanders up to the screen on the wall. “A little over eight pounds lighter,” he chuckles, then reaches up to hook his arm around Steve, pulling him close and pressing their foreheads together. “I’m fantastic.” _

_ “Yeah,” Steve laughs, thinking back to a text message he’d gotten from Bucky almost seven months ago, on Veterans Day, which had said the very same thing. Steve had read it while sitting on the dusty concrete steps of a bunker in Latvia where, in a way, Lincoln’s story had begun. At the time, it had broken his heart to read it, knowing that he was going to return home and ruin whatever sense of peace Bucky had finally found by dragging Hydra and Zola’s presence back into their lives. Sitting on those steps, with those files weighing heavily in his hands, he’d never have guessed that that they would eventually lead him here. He never had responded to Bucky’s message that day. Well. Better late than never. “Me, too.” _

Bucky tilts Lincoln back to let him rest against his thighs. Only a moment ago, Lincoln had made his first real effort to open his eyes and look around. That first glimpse of the world and his parents must have piqued his curiosity; he’s awake and alert now. His eyes shift lazily from Steve’s face to Bucky’s, back and forth, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light. His curled fist is tucked against his cheek, giving him a hilarious air of bored contemplation as he studies them. Every few seconds, his tongue darts out lazily to lick his bottom lip. He looks ridiculous, but Steve thinks better of saying so in front of Bucky.

“He’s fuckin’ ridiculous,” Bucky scoffs.

Steve’s joy bursts out of him like a popped champagne cork. “Isn’t he?”

“Jesus, I’ve never seen anything - he’s - he’s so  _ sweet. _ I don’t know what to do.”

Steve feels transfixed; staring at Lincoln is inducing some kind of full-body paralysis. He’s not sure if he’s awake or not. He’s not sure if a world exists beyond the little face in front of him. “Wow,” Steve sighs stupidly.

“I can’t believe we did this,” Bucky mumbles.

“I can’t believe  _ you _ did this.”

“It was pretty easy.”

Steve would stare at Bucky in utter disbelief if he could. The best he can do is a faint, “ _ What?” _

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms nonchalantly. “Didn’t even hurt.”

“Seemed like it hurt.”

“Nope,” he smiles, stroking his thumb lightly over Lincoln’s cheek and watching him react to the touch. “Not really.”

Bucky shudders and sighs as if he’s on the verge of tears. His fingers dance lovingly over Lincoln’s arm, rest for a moment against his tiny ribcage, trail down his leg to give his knee a gentle squeeze, and finally settle on Lincoln’s foot. It’s so perfectly small that it disappears completely when he wraps his hand around it.

There’s such profound, deep adoration in his expression that when Steve hears him take a breath to speak, he expects something ardent and impassioned. Poetry or prayers or an unbreakable promise.

“God.” Bucky exhales, overwhelmed and speechless. “I thought you were Italian food.”


	2. 38 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Lincoln share a secret, and Lincoln doesn't want to let Bucky in on it just yet.

**MAY 29, 2017. 10:35 AM**

 

Steve had known there would be some kind of postpartum exam. He knew there would be more pain for Bucky and efforts to make him comfortable and ensure that he was healthy and as unhurt as anyone could be after delivering a baby. He had read about postpartum care in detail and discussed it with Bruce whenever he could, trying to understand and adapt the information for Bucky’s circumstances and body. Some of it - _most of it_ \- shocked and terrified him. But he planned to be next to Bucky through all of it, helping in any way he could; even if he couldn’t make those first few hours perfect and gentle, he could make them easier.

To Steve’s abject horror, Helen, Bruce, and Bucky collectively dismiss him from all of those self-imposed responsibilities when the time comes.

Helen places Lincoln in his bassinet as Bruce repositions the bed and raises the stirrups. At Helen’s instruction, Steve helps Bucky strip off the soaked hospital gown and removes the dirty sheets and pads from the bed. Something inside Steve’s gut aches with discomfort once he’s done what she asked; even here, in this cool, clean room, in the company of friends, he can’t stand the sight of Bucky exposed and naked, gritting his teeth as Helen helps him settle his legs into the stirrups. Bucky flinches just a little when Bruce’s hand palpates his abdomen, but Steve flinches harder. The knot in his throat is sharp. He wants to look away.

“What about Lincoln?” Bucky’s voice is a low croak, hoarse and broken from the long night. Lincoln has been fed, he’s warm, and he’s safe and secure inside the bassinet, but Bucky doesn’t seem to think it’s enough. And Lincoln doesn’t think so either, judging by the way he’s whining and fussing. “Steve - could you--”

Bruce’s face lights up with realization and excitement. Immediately, he abandons his examination of Bucky, hurries around the bed to the bassinet, and lifts Lincoln up to his own shoulder. Lincoln’s languid cries stutter comically as Bruce gives his back a few hard, rhythmic thumps, rocking his body from side to side. Steve has never seen Bruce enjoy his work so much. There are stars in his eyes that are usually reserved for only the most earth-shattering revelations of biophysics.

“I know, little guy. Yeah, we know,” Bruce laughs. “We got distracted with other stuff and we forgot to snuggle you. We’re bad. We’re sorry.”

Bucky seems to shed that blank, passive mask of anxiety and a tired grin blooms on his face instead. Steve can only imagine how reassuring it must be for him to see Bruce treating Lincoln like that, fawning over him, acting a fool to entertain and comfort him. It’s a perfect, succinct reminder that he is neither Zola or Strazds. In spite of how well Bucky knows Bruce now, Steve imagines it must be hard sometimes: the hands on him could be anyone’s hands; one pain is often indistinguishable from another; the shrill tones of monitors and the pale burn of exam lights are all the same. He’s glad Bruce has the presence of mind to occasionally act as a friend rather than a doctor.

“Steve, uh - let me see - crap, where’d I move the damn chair?” Bruce keeps bouncing Lincoln as he talks. “Oh, there it - okay, Steve, drag that chair over here beside the bed.”

Perplexed, Steve does as he’s told.

“And take your shirt off,” Bruce adds. “But keep it handy for me.”

Steve finds himself more confused for a split second, but he recalls an obvious - if unexpected - answer to his questions. Steve is aware of the concept of skin-to-skin contact and its importance in bonding with a new baby, but he’d only really thought about it as being something for Bucky and Lincoln to enjoy. He had read a hundred times that new fathers were encouraged to spend skin-to-skin time with their newborns, but in a way, he didn’t want to appear presumptuous, or worse, somehow covetous of those precious first few hours of Lincoln’s life. He doesn’t want to take something that Bucky has earned so many times over.

He can’t really put words to the nagging fear that’s been chasing him for the last few months, or the sadness that has lingered at the back of his mind. Logically, he knows it’s not true - but he feels, irrationally, that Lincoln belongs to Bucky more than to him. It’s a selfish, immature thought, entangled with nonsensical justifications and long-conditioned beliefs. Bucky had carried Lincoln. Bucky had been deprived of the right to raise or even hold his other children, and they were gone now. _Five times_ , Bucky has been pregnant, and this is the first time he’s ever had the freedom to cradle one in his arms. And Bucky had little sisters - he knows how to care for babies and Steve doesn’t.

When Steve was young, a father might not have even come home from work when his wife went into labor. He might not have been allowed in the room, anyway. It was perfectly acceptable - and sometimes even _expected_ \- that the proud father wouldn’t have much interest in holding a baby or caring for it, or sharing any of the responsibilities arbitrarily assigned to the exhausted mother.

Somehow, the thought of _mothers_ and the status quo of the twenties snaps Steve out the delusion. Bucky isn’t a mother, and this isn’t the Roaring Twenties - Lincoln has two fathers, and yet he needs all the same love and tenderness that any child would need, and they can give it to him. It’s 2017, not 1917. Steve _caught_ Lincoln the moment he was born and cut his cord. He and Bucky are comfortably open with their team and their friends in regards to their relationship. And they’re certainly not the only pair of queers raising a baby - there are hundreds of thousands of families now which are more like to theirs than to Steve’s outdated image of the American family. And Bucky’s not the only man to deliver a baby, either - not even the only one in New York. Times have certainly changed.

But times have changed _for the better_ , and Steve wouldn’t trade a single moment of this beautiful present for _all_ the lost years of his past. Here, he doesn’t have to hide. Here, he and Bucky live together. Here, he has his team and they have him. Here, he has a son; here, he can be a father and raise and care for his child without being told that his natural instincts to nurture and be tender were unbecoming of a man. Here, his family has a future.

Steve doesn’t hesitate to take the time that Bruce and Bucky have offered up. He removes his sweat-damp t-shirt, drapes it over the arm of the chair, and sits down, slouching to give Lincoln a more comfortable place to lie. Bruce unwraps Lincoln from his blanket and lays him down on Steve’s chest.

Lincoln’s cheek rests heavily on Steve’s collarbone. He splays his arms and uses his clumsy fingers to explore Steve’s skin, grasping and pinching with tiny fingers and sharp nails. Steve can feel warmth radiating from his son’s body - _real, human warmth._ He’s acutely aware of the impossible softness of Lincoln’s hair. The tenderness of his skin. The structure of his bones, the strength of his muscles as he pushes his feet against Steve’s stomach, the beating heart in his little chest.

Bruce covers Lincoln with Steve’s shirt. Lincoln takes a few unpracticed breaths, pressing his forehead hard into Steve’s throat as he struggles to turn his head from side to side. Within seconds, all that discontented fussing stops. Lincoln’s whole demeanor shifts. Suddenly, he’s curious and happy. He’s exploring. He grunts and chirps and yells, even _hums_ , in the sweetest, strangest voice Steve has ever heard.

“Are you talking, Lincoln?” Steve asks earnestly. When he speaks, Lincoln falls silent. When Steve waits for a reply, Lincoln gets noisy again.

Steve wants to cry. He wants the whole world to know this is his little boy; Lincoln knows his voice already. That’s _amazing_. “Are you happy, baby? Are you excited?” he whispers, leaning down to let his lips touch Lincoln’s forehead as he speaks. Again, Lincoln is quiet while Steve talks, and the moment Steve finishes, he coos and pants, kicking and squirming. His eyes are wide with interest and wonder. His hands fumble over Steve’s chest and up to his throat.

“I think he likes the way your voice feels.”

Steve looks up, still dazed with love, to find Bucky craning his neck to watch them from the bed. Bruce is performing some kind of exam or procedure, touching his abdomen externally with one hand as his other hand palpates internally; Helen is placing an IV in the crook of his elbow. Steve watches the needle slip into a vein, but Bucky doesn’t even blink. He keeps staring at Steve and Lincoln with his head tilted back, wearing a dreamy smile to match Steve’s own.

“See - he’s trying to feel your throat when you talk--”

Steve laughs at that thought. Lincoln jumps and purses his lips. The sound he makes clearly expresses surprise and fascination.

“Oo-oh,” Bruce repeats, imitating Lincoln’s tone precisely. “Yeah, big people are neat, huh?”

“Lincoln, do you like it when I talk to you?” Steve chuckles. Lincoln gasps and pants, working himself into a fit. He doesn’t just like it - he’s _thrilled_ by it _._

“Stop making Bucky laugh, Lincoln,” Bruce says, although he’s laughing right along with his patient. “I’m trying to feel his uterus over here and it’s in a weird place to start with - measuring a guy’s fundal height is hard enough without all the giggling--”

“Bucky, your fundus is just fine,” Helen argues, holding back a grin.

“Oh yeah, you put the _fun_ in _fundus_ ,” Bruce remarks with a perfectly straight face and seemingly unbroken concentration.

Both Bucky and Steve get a real laugh out of the absurdity of Bruce’s distracted attempt at humor, and when the two of them laugh, Lincoln grunts and tries with all his might to turn his head and look around. Steve’s shoulders shake and Lincoln bounces sporadically on his chest. The odd little grunts are hysterical. He sounds surprised and somehow intent on learning, like he knows all the adults are amused by something and he wants to be in on the joke. The expressive new sound draws Steve’s eyes down to study his son’s astonished face. “What, you like the laughing, too?” Steve asks him.

Lincoln’s mouth hangs open as he listens. Then, without giving Steve even a moment to prepare himself, his little cheeks round out, his blue eyes disappear into perfect wrinkles, his top lip curls clumsily to show his gums, and he lets out a happy, high-pitched yelp.

He’s _smiling._

“Buck!”

“What?”

“Bucky, look!”

_“What?”_

“He smiled!”

But as quickly as the grin appeared, it’s gone. He’s staring up at Steve with that same slack-jawed expression from before. “Never mind,” Steve sighs. He settles back down into the chair, wishing Bucky hadn’t missed his chance to see that incredible moment. The second they’re snuggled back together, Lincoln does it again. Goddamnit, Steve has read enough to know that it’s _probably_ just gas or something, but that doesn’t change the way it makes him feel. Lincoln does it a third time, and it’s the biggest, broadest smile yet.

“Bucky--”

Bucky turns his head again, and just like before, Lincoln’s wipes the grin off his face at the last possible moment. Again, Bucky doesn’t see it.

“Lincoln, you jerk,” Steve chuckles.

Bucky repositions himself carefully on the bed and gives up on watching the two of them.

Sure enough, Lincoln goes right back to smiling. Steve feels utterly cheated.

Bucky’s voice has taken on the strain of discomfort, but Steve can still hear a note of mirth in it when he speaks. “Maybe he only does it for you, Steve.”

“No, he’s just being shy,” Steve jokes. But Lincoln is looking right up at him, studying his face with eyes growing sleepier by the second, _still_ smiling.

For the first time, Steve understands what he’s gained.

He knows who he is to Lincoln and who Lincoln is to him. He and Bucky are the whole world to Lincoln right now, and Steve is half of that world. He’s half of _Lincoln_. Bucky is the other half, and Steve can pick out those familiar elements with perfect ease: the shape of Bucky’s narrow, discerning eyes, the gentle slope of his nose, and a hundred other minute features and nuances, all blended together to make a person.

But when Steve looks down at that hair - blonder by the minute as it dries - at the curve of those smiling lips and that broad chin without Bucky’s cleft, at the particular blue of Lincoln’s eyes, he sees _himself_ there, staring back at him. Lincoln is Bucky’s, and Lincoln is _his._ His baby. His son. His flesh and blood, his heart and soul, his labor, his love.

Maybe, when Lincoln looks up at him like that, when his eyes flicker over Steve’s face and his fingers trace those curious lines over Steve’s jaw, maybe _Lincoln_ sees himself looking back, too. Maybe he knows that he and his father are grinning with the same lips and staring with the same eyes.

Maybe Lincoln _is_ smiling just for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thank you SO much for the flood of comments you gave the first little snippet. They really kept me writing and the kind words brought me a lot of joy. My keyboard is getting tired, but I'm not! <3
> 
> -zack


	3. 2 Hours, 54 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all this time, Bucky is still deals with the same fears. They'll analyze him and reach the obvious conclusion: he's not ready. He can't be weak or vulnerable or sick. He can't be incompetent.
> 
> Stay quiet; whatever happens, don't call for help.

**MAY 29, 2017. 12:51 PM**

 

“Look, I’m not your mom and I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

Helen Cho’s soft, kind voice cuts through the silence in the delivery room. Bucky doesn’t hold it against her - she probably doesn’t realize how precious that silence was to him.

“But you should at least _try_ to sleep.”

It’s one o’clock already. Bruce and Cho had worked some real magic on him: within an hour of finishing the delivery, they had him cleaned up, comfortable, and fairly presentable. Bruce had been more than happy with the results of the first postpartum exam. Bucky had combed his hair and washed his face. Steve had helped him walk a few short steps to stretch his legs while the others changed the bed sheets again. Helen propped him up on with pillows under both sides of his body, and he’s cradled so happily there that he’s beginning to dread leaving the medical wing at all. The ice pack Bruce had placed underneath him is taking the edge off the aching, bruised feeling, and he’s left with only a constant, dull throb in his pelvic floor. He knows it should hurt, but the endorphins flooding his brain have completely altered his perception of pain. It’s only a sensation - not a good sensation, but not bad, either. Bruce had put more pads down, too, but Bucky feels like he’s barely bleeding at all.

Once Steve, Helen, and Bruce had convinced Bucky that was decent enough, they’d invited everyone else in. Everybody who’d been holding forth out in the lab made at least a brief visit, though Natasha, Sharon, and Rhodes had hung back in the doorway, smiling as they stared staunchly at the floor. Steve had walked Lincoln around the room, talking to his teammates without once managing to produce an intelligent string of words. He was too tired and awestruck and drunk on the mere sight of his son.

Sam had stayed right next to Bucky the whole time, sitting beside him in the bed like a solid wall, shoulder to shoulder, making sure that Bucky was never alone at the center of all those people, never surrounded, never overwhelmed. In low tones and quiet, shared laughs, they’d talked about how fanatical and unhinged poor Steve was acting, and they’d placed bets on how long the team would put up with him showing off his baby like this.

After thirty minutes, it was Sam who had announced that visiting hours were officially over and tactfully demanded that Steve return Lincoln to Bucky. He’d lead the way out of the room and ushered the more talkative visitors (Stark) along with him. He had made sure all the goodbyes and well-wishes stayed short and sweet.

Bucky would pay folding money to know how to thank Sam for that, but he can’t imagine a gift or favor that would suffice.

Bruce wanted to keep him on the monitors for a little longer to watch for postpartum hemorrhages and administer IV fluids. Lincoln still needed a more thorough checkup, too. Bucky had complied wholeheartedly with the idea of extending his stay. Steve had almost seemed surprised by his sudden love affair with the medical wing, but if he meant to ask Bucky about it, he never got the opportunity. The next hour had been too busy.

Lincoln had nursed again; the kid’s nerves were shot after those eye drops, a flight of injections, and a stick in the heel. Bucky had put him down in his bassinet, swaddled tightly in the blanket from his crib. He can’t see much of Lincoln’s face now - the soft blanket is tucked around his tiny chin and there’s a plush hat pulled down nearly to his eyes - but his pouting mouth and red nose are evidence enough: he’s disgruntled and upset with everyone for all they’d put him through that day. Granted, Steve and Bucky didn’t particularly care if Lincoln screamed and cried over the needles - they’d been over the moon to know he’d never get polio or measles.

Bruce and Helen left ten minutes after they finished with Lincoln, and advised the whole family to get as much sleep as they could while Bucky and Lincoln recovered. Steve told them flatly he wouldn’t be able to sleep - not for a _second_ \- but then he had stretched out across the foot of the bed. _Resting my eyes. Just for a few minutes._

Bucky’s had his feet propped up on Steve for a while now and the poor bastard hasn’t stirred even once. Forget resting his eyes, forget sleeping - he’s unconscious.

And now Lincoln is sleeping, too. Bucky is the only one left awake - and Helen, apparently.

“Are you listening to me?” she presses. “Or are you just staring at that baby you made?”

“I can’t stop,” Bucky admits with a contented sigh. “Can’t take my eyes off him. _Look_ at him.”

Helen watches the CTG on the wall, following the readouts as the float by. The readout still shows the peaks and valleys of contractions, but they’re less intense now and Bucky’s body is humming with warm euphoria. She checks the numbers on the screen, then looks at Bucky, studying him alongside them. He smiles back at her reassuringly. He feels good. He’s alright.

Unfortunately, Helen’s not having it.  “You look like crap. Rest.”

And Bucky tries. He forces himself to shut his eyes and settle back into the pillows. He listens to Lincoln’s soft breaths and Steve’s quiet snores. He tries to lose himself in the birdsong and breeze and rustling trees drifting in from the open window. Minutes pass, but as time wears on, he decides he’s too happy to sleep. This is too good. He can’t miss a second of it, he’ll never sleep again, and it doesn’t bother him one bit.

* * *

**MAY 29, 2017. 1:40 PM**

Bucky thinks he must have blinked. One moment, Lincoln was sleeping, and now he’s awake and vocal, wiggling like a fish to escape his swaddling. He’s almost got his hat knocked off completely. His jaw is working furiously and there’s a frown creasing his brow.

Bucky checks the clock. Either he slept for an hour and can’t recall ever dozing off, or he blacked out and lost time. He can see that Lincoln is hungry again - that’s plain enough, and he doesn’t need Bruce here to help him read the cues. He can feed him on his own.

He turns slowly and carefully, taking his feet off Steve’s back to bring them slowly to the floor. He’s not hurting half as badly as he’d thought he would, but he does miss the ice pack the moment he moves away from it. His muscles are fatigued: his sides and back are torn to shreds, his legs ache, there’s a twinge in his neck, and even his chest and right arm are sore. Still, it’s not much worse than he’d felt in the days after pulling Steve out of the Potomac.

It’s almost funny, with the benefit of hindsight; giving birth to Steve Rogers' son was the most difficult thing he’d done since taking on Captain America in a fight.

He reaches out to lift Lincoln out of the cradle, but stops himself. He needs to support him with a pillow while he nurses, which would be easier if he were leaning back against the headboard. He’s not sure he can reposition himself while holding Lincoln.

And he’s thirsty. The empty water cup on the bedside table isn’t much help, and the sink is on the other side of the room. He thinks he could walk, but he’d have to swing himself back around to the other side of the bed, get his IV pole, and then make the trip over to the sink with his cup. He needs to use the bathroom, too, and he’d like to do it while he’s already up and save himself the trouble of struggling out of bed a second time. And Lincoln is already on the verge of crying. Crying makes it hard to get a good latch, and he’s still new to breastfeeding. He struggles with it when it’s easy - he’s not exactly ready to challenge himself.

And in addition to all of that, Lincoln’s not the only one who’s so hungry he could cry.

Bucky could wake Steve up, but he doesn’t want to. One of them should be well-rested and alert - they have a long night ahead of them - and Steve has barely slept this past week.

 _I need help. I need to ask for help,_ Bucky tells himself.

The ever-present voice of his former self reminds him, _You can do it on your own. Don’t bother them._

But Bruce and Helen had been clear: no one would disturb him while he was sleeping, but someone would be out in the lab at all times, and if Bucky needed _anything_ \- even if he was just uncomfortable or lonely or nervous - he should tell Friday right away.

_Bruce and Helen have gone to bed. Don’t invite a stranger in._

He takes a breath, intending to follow Bruce and Helen’s instructions.

Once again, he hesitates. Again, he hears that voice. _Please don’t. They’ll think you’re not ready._

And he’s _not_ ready, is he? He’s been thrilled every time they’ve extended his stay in medical for another few hours. Tests and shots for Lincoln, visitors, observation - he’s agreed enthusiastically to all of it, because as much as he wants to reclaim his privacy and dignity, he doesn’t want to be alone. He still hasn’t managed to overcome his discomfort with doctors, and yet he’d give anything to have a dozen of them right now, telling him what to do and when and how to do it. He wishes Helen would come back. He wishes Bruce was inexhaustible. He has a million stupid questions and Lincoln needs him to have all the answers.

_They might take him away. You can’t let them know you’re not ready._

Even as those words replay in his head, another voice fades in, shouting his name. This new voice is clearer, and it’s not the nagging, phantom fear of potential disaster, but a rich, vivid memory. Not something that _could_ happen, but something that _did_ happen. _Bucky!_ the voice shouts. _Bucky, come in here a minute!_

_It was early in the evening on a Saturday. The cicadas were buzzing loud enough to make his head hurt. The Ohio River Valley air was humid; wet and boiling, but too stingy to rain on the drooping cornstalks. Not one tassel had grown taller than Bucky himself could reach with an outstretched hand, and even at six years old, he knew that meant a bad year. They’d have to pick it soon, one way or another. This crop was their ticket to New York._

_“Now!” his ma called him again._

_He threw his cracked, brown baseball one last time. Butch - the dog that wouldn’t leave - wandered after it, fulfilling his sole duty in life though he was panting and parched. Bucky jumped the rotting porch railing because when his ma said_ _Now, she meant it - maybe even more than she’d meant it when she’d said, “Don’t you hang on those God damned rails.”_

_Bucky found his mother in the sweltering kitchen, sitting beside the stove and a pot of hot water. The steam rolling off the range only added to the misery. Baby Caroline was draped across her ma’s lap, face down and covered only with a damp dish towel and the million red bumps all over her back and sides. There were two books on the table in front of Bucky’s mother. The open one was filled with tiny, splotchy print and a scarce couple of illustrations._

_His ma pointed down at Baby Caroline. “What’s that look like?”_

_“Chiggers,” Bucky replied, unsure but hopeful all the same._

_His ma pulled the open book closer and squinted at a picture no bigger than her own eye. He peered over her shoulder. The black and white drawing didn’t offer much for comparison to the brilliant reds and pinks on Caroline’s back, but Bucky could see why his ma was scared - all the rashes looked the same, and Caroline could have any one of them._

_“Read me this one,” his mother commanded. Her finger fell heavily on the entry in question: mumps - though she didn’t yet know that because she couldn’t read, so it was up to Bucky to deliver the bad news._

_Bucky stood at that table and read fifteen long entries aloud to his mother, diligently sounding out the medical gibberish until he’d just about frustrated himself to tears. When his ma finally broke down and told him to run and get Grandma Nina - the old lady of no relation who lived two miles down the road - he felt nothing but relief._

_Grandma Nina laughed at Bucky’s mother when she arrived, then snatched Caroline up in her withered old arms that reminded Bucky of the corn stalks outside. She took out her fan and waved it through the burning air like a magic wand. “Heat rash,” she said. And Bucky’s mother had laughed, too._

Bucky picks up his crying son and cradles him on his shoulder. He needs this first and foremost. Someone else can handle the rest. “Friday,” he calls out softly. “Is there anybody out in the lab? I need help.”


	4. 8 Hours, 27 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve hits a tiny speed-bump in the learning curve.

**MAY 29, 2017. 6:24 PM**

 

Steve wakes up at half past six, sore, confused, and startled by the dawning knowledge that he somehow fell asleep.

The sun has moved from one side of the sky to the other. The delivery room is cleaned up and the lights are dim. It’s been _more_ than a few minutes.

Bucky is sleeping so deeply that he doesn't even stir when Steve sits up and knocks the dead weight of his legs askew. Lincoln is resting, too, in the rolling bassinet beside the bed where Bucky's hand dangles over him like a mobile. With each slow, sleepy breath he takes, his belly rises and touches the tips of Bucky's fingers, as if Lincoln needs to know with each inhale that Bucky is still there, just as Bucky needs to reaffirm every few seconds that Lincoln is still breathing easily.

Steve can hardly look at the two of them. They’re incredible and beyond comprehension. Still, he can hardly bring himself to look away.

The table beside the bed no longer holds Bruce and Helen’s equipment and the melting bowl of ice water, but a small, stuffed bear shamelessly dressed in an Iron Man suit. The strings of three balloons are tied around its wrist - one red and one blue, both sporting a white star, and one which reads _Happy Birthday!_ There’s a square of cardstock attached to one of the strings. Steve can read the messily scrawled Sharpie even from a distance: _Congrats Future MIT Grad (Class of 2039)_ and the smaller print below it, which reads, _(Kidding! 100% your choice, just absolutely not Caltech.)_

There’s a small, flat box with Sharon’s handwriting on it. _Saw this online and thought it would be really funny._

And there’s a third gift, which Steve doesn’t find until he sits up and feels the sharp, hard edge of it digging into the small of his back. Perplexed, he reaches into the back of his jeans and pulls something out of the waistband of his briefs. It’s a Grubhub gift card, bearing the simplest message yet: _$100 - don’t starve._ The handwriting might be Natasha's, but the sentiment is _unquestionably_ Natasha's.

Steve struggles off the bed, stiff and slow-moving and still wondering how he’d managed to fall asleep in the middle of the day - and of all days, _today_ , when he has so many things to do and unfathomable new responsibilities to fulfil.

And at that moment, as if on cue, Lincoln’s face wrinkles and flushes pink, his legs stretch out, and his little body twists restlessly in the bassinet. Bucky’s eyes are open the moment Lincoln starts crying. Reflexively, Bucky starts to push himself up, but Steve rises and presses a hand to his shoulder. “I got it,” he promises.

Bucky’s eyelids droop when he sees that Steve is up and alert, and he concedes the fight to his drowsiness. His gaze drifts up toward the clock on the monitor, where a running timeline of his own vitals is still displayed. “Fed him twenty minutes ago,” Bucky mumbles, then scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands and yawns, letting himself fall back onto the raised headboard and the nest of pillows. “He’s probably not too hungry yet.”

“Bruce said his metabolism might be higher than normal,” Steve reminds him.

“Well, does he look hungry?”

Just as Steve is reaching down to lift his son out of the bassinet, Bucky’s question stops him. Does he _look_ hungry? Suddenly feeling horrifyingly unprepared and inadequate as a parent, Steve stares down at Lincoln. _Does_ he look hungry?

Babies show hunger by poking out their tongues. Smacking their lips together. Sucking on their fingers and hands. Squirming, stretching. Crying. Crying was usually the last cue, and they usually stick with that tactic exclusively until someone fed them. Steve had memorized the list of hunger-signs from a book, but none of it seems to translate neatly to reality.

Lincoln is crying and not doing much of anything else. Before that, he was sleeping, so crying is now Steve’s only lead. But crying can mean _anything._ Crying can mean _nothing._ The information Steve had meticulously curated and studied is useless right now.

 _Wait,_ Steve tells himself. _Take a deep breath and calm the fuck down. He ate twenty minutes ago. He’s probably just wet._

“He’s probably just wet,” Steve replies aloud, hoping he’s added enough ease and confidence to the words. He lifts Lincoln up and holds him against his chest, bouncing him exactly like Bruce had. It doesn’t seem to comfort Lincoln nearly as much when Steve does it, which irks him a little.

 _Then again,_ Steve thinks fleetingly, _if I’d shit my pants, I wouldn’t much appreciate being bounced around, either._ He stops.

“Well, check.”

Steve knows exactly how to check to see if a diaper is dirty. That is _common_ sense. He _knows_ it’s common sense. Still, he falters and ends up patting down the back of Lincoln’s diaper like a fucking idiot.

“Steve, just _look._ ”

“Yeah, I know--” Steve sighs, then shuts his mouth resolutely. He has to take a brief moment to gather himself, but he does finally manage to drum up the courage to glance down the back of Lincoln’s diaper. He finds that it does, in fact, need to be changed. “It just seemed too forward,” he mumbles defensively.

Thankfully, Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him. He sits up and smooths out the blanket covering his legs. “Here, set him down--”

“I can change a diaper, Bucky,” Steve insists, smiling. He makes it sound _really_ believable, too. He sets Lincoln back down in the bassinet, and then he stands there like a wooden post, feeling scattered, nervous, and unforgivably dumb. He bends down to take Lincoln’s diaper off.

“Get the stuff first, Steve.”

Bucky’s voice _sounds_ gentle and understanding, but Steve is suspicious of his kind tone. He’s _got_ to be appalled or terrified, or at least fighting back laughter. “Yeah, I was. I am.”

Steve digs through the diaper bag for a long minute. He grabs a disposable diaper and a cloth cover, the portable changing pad, the A&D, and the hand sanitizer. He feels ready. Even a little overprepared.

But Lincoln is not only wet and uncomfortable now - he’s also certain he’s been abandoned for good. He’s screaming. Steve moves to pick him back up with the changing pad in hand.

“You don’t really need that.”

Steve rolls his eyes animatedly, throws the changing pad down on the bed, and sets Lincoln back in the bassinet. He unfastens the Velcro at Lincoln’s waist.

“Do you want help?” Bucky asks softly.

“Bucky, I’ve got it--”

“I know - but--”

“I didn’t stare over your shoulder when _you_ changed him--”

“You were asleep.”

“I can do it--”

“Open the other diaper first.” Bucky gets the words out as quickly as he can, before Steve has the chance to cut him off.

He’s...right. Yeah. Steve _knew_ to have the clean diaper prepped before pulling the old one off. He _did_ know that. He’s just feeling self-conscious and insecure, and he’s had a long night, and Lincoln makes him a little nervous, and Bucky makes him _extremely_ nervous. There’s a lot to trip over.

He gets a clean diaper ready and, finally, opens the old one. He takes hold of Lincoln by the ankles, feeling like he’s trying to grab a rattlesnake by the neck, slides the old diaper out of the way, folds it over one-handed, and spends a glorious second feeling like he’s back in the game.

He has no goddamn _wipes._

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispers.

Bucky sees what’s missing instantly. His eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. Looks like he’s working harder by the second not to call Steve a moron, but - as per Steve’s request - he’s also diligently keeping his helpful remarks to himself.

Except Steve still has Lincoln by the ankles, and nothing to set him down on that isn’t the brand new clean diaper or the bassinet he’s sleeping in, and the diaper bag is on the other side of the bed. Steve wilts as Bucky pushes himself up and leans over with visible difficulty, stretching to reach the bag at the foot of the bed. Bucky hands him the box of baby wipes with an exhausted exhale and a barely-stifled grimace of pain.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles. He takes three of the wipes, arranging them meticulously in the grip of his right hand. Lincoln isn’t crying anymore - he’s staring Steve down, confused and unimpressed. “Okay - do I just - do I just sort of _go for it_ or--”

“Just - I mean, _yeah.”_

“I--okay. I kind of feel like we don’t know each other that well yet,” he says quietly. Steve decides that no amount of embarrassment or discomfort warrants dangling Lincoln in the air by the ankles for a second longer. He does it. He uses nine wipes in total for what he’s almost certain was a relatively small mess, but he gets it done. All business. He holds up the A&D. “Do we need this?” he asks smartly.

The moment Bucky’s mouth forms the shape of the word _no,_ Steve tosses the A&D over his shoulder and right back into the diaper bag. Slides the new diaper under Lincoln. Fastens it _perfectly._ Two fingers in the waistband - not too loose, not too tight. He has the diaper cover on in eight seconds flat and he doesn’t overlook a single plastic snap. _And_ it’s an adorable cover. There are tiny owls printed on it.

 _Now_ he’s back in the game. “Yes!” he nearly shouts, grinning down at his son as they wave their arms in unison. He scoops him up and hugs him to his shoulder. “We did it, buddy. We got this.”

“Perfect,” Bucky laughs. He _actually_ looks proud now. His eyes no longer shift nervously over the trainwreck in front of him - they’re filled with nothing but love and relief. “Nice job.”

Steve gives his son a few celebratory pats on the backside, only to discover that it doesn’t feel quite _right._ Way too fat. Steve cranes his neck to look down at Lincoln’s bottom, staring until it dawns on him that it’s about twice as big as before. “Why is this so puffy?” he demands. “What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” Bucky assures him.

Steve isn’t convinced. “Why’s his butt so--” He can see that Bucky already knows the answer. He looks like a dog who’s been asked why there’s garbage all over the floor. He _definitely_ knows. “Bucky.”

“It’s not a - it’s fine. That’s just two diapers,” Bucky answers reluctantly.

“It’s - what?”

“You've got a - that’s two. That’s a cloth diaper, not a cover.”

“You’re kidding,” Steve says emptily. “That’s a diaper?”

Bucky doesn’t seem to be kidding.

“Why is it so big? It shouldn’t fit _over_ another--”

“It’ll fit him later, Stevie - the gray ones are the newborn size, that one’s--”

“I put _two_ diapers on him?” Steve repeats incredulously. “And you were just gonna let me do that?”

“I didn’t want to make you feel--”

With Lincoln still held tightly against his shoulder, Steve leans down and plants a kiss right on Bucky’s mouth, silencing him instantly. He’s never felt so loved. He’s never felt so stupid or flustered. He’s never felt so indescribably lucky. “Thank you,” he smiles. “I’m gonna get better at that.”

Lincoln whines expressively in his arms. Steve kisses him, too.

“I’ll do better next time, baby. Promise.”


	5. 10 Hours, 43 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce shoos the children off to college.

**MAY 29, 2017. 8:40 PM**

 

Bucky sleeps fitfully for the rest of the evening.

Outside, the Facility’s personnel are having a picnic - talking, laughing, playing music, and setting off sparklers by the handful. With the window open, Bucky can smell hotdogs and burgers and a dozen other wonderful things cooking on a grill three storeys below. Occasionally, Steve’s slow pacing leads him over to the window and he spends a few minutes staring down at the grounds, probably craving the food and company just as much as Bucky is.

Bucky has eaten three times today: for breakfast, Jello and one of Tony’s blended parodies of food; the same for lunch; then, around seven, Tony brought him a huge thermos of soup - bone broth with kale and barley. Tony had explained his reading on the subject of bone broth and collagen, as well as the anti-inflammatory properties of leafy green vegetables and the importance of whole grain in a postpartum diet. Another round of “shakes” accompanied the soup. Bucky had thanked him repeatedly. He didn’t have the heart to tell him, but he would rather eat nothing but Jello for the rest of his life if it meant never seeing another one of those shakes. The smell of _real_ food only seems to make them taste worse.

He’s just beginning to crave the freedom of his own quarters when Bruce knocks twice and slips into the room, holding a Starkpad loosely at his side. “Hey, everybody,” he says, smiling meaningfully. “How are you guys feeling? Good?”

Bucky knows instantly that Bruce is ready to send him home. He was just beginning to think he wanted to _go_ home. Just starting to feel prepared for the inevitable. And now, here he is, trying to keep his hands from shaking with fear and searching in vain for any excuse to stay in medical a little longer. Apparently, Bruce doesn’t read the fear that Bucky feels _must_ be visible on his face. He moves on cheerily.

“Still bleeding?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers emphatically, hoping it will keep him here for another hour.

“Still pretty steady?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not light-headed or cold.”

Bucky does his best not to let his reply sound disappointed. “No.”

“Any trouble using the bathroom?”

“A little bit.” He could lie. _Yes, a lot of trouble. Can’t do it. Probably going to die of sepsis if left on my own. You should keep me here until I figure out how to raise my son without ruining his life._ Unfortunately, both Brandon and Helen had already inquired about his GI tract, and Steve had walked him to the toilet a few times. They all knew there was nothing seriously wrong with him.

“Just text me if your still having trouble in the morning, okay? What about Lincoln? Is he still nursing pretty well?”

“Yeah.”

“How’re the diapers looking?”

“Five wet, so far,” Bucky sighs. “But he still hasn’t pooped. Is that—”

Bruce is prepared. “Yep, perfectly normal. It can take a day. Just give it a little time. Now, that first stool he passes is going to look _very_ weird, but that’s just the meconium, so don’t freak out. Call me if it’s pasty white or if you see blood in it, but other than that,” he laughs, “expect the unexpected. Baby poop is... _totally_ bizarre.”

“Do I give him a bath?” Bucky asks suddenly. He can feel panic rising up in his throat and nothing Bruce is saying is sticking in his head. His brain feels like a sieve. He doesn’t want to go yet. There won’t be anyone to monitor Lincoln’s vitals at home. There aren’t six med techs on the residential floor. Their apartment isn’t sterile - he can’t even remember if it’s _clean._

“If you want to,” Bruce shrugs.

“What if he’s crying and we can’t figure out why?”

“I mean, he’s a baby. He’s going to cry for absolutely no reason sometimes.”

Steve must sense that they’re close to getting discharged, too. He decides to join in on the interrogation. “And we really don’t give him water?”

“Definitely not.”

“He looks smaller than he did this morning, is that--”

“Also normal to lose some weight in the first few days.” Bruce remains astonishingly calm.

“Do you want us to bring him back tomorrow for--”

“Let’s just stick to the original plan, Bucky--”

“A week seems like such a long--”

“Guys.” It took a while, but they’ve finally worn Bruce’s saint-like patience down enough that he laughs at them. “Do you want to take your baby home or what?”

Steve’s uncertain reply of “Absolutely!” and Bucky’s emphatic “I don’t _know!”_ collide mid-air like a clay pigeon and a bullet. They’re left staring at one another, equal parts apologetic and betrayed.

“So - I’m sensing that you guys are just a little freaked out right now,” Bruce states conservatively. “Which is fine. That’s normal. But you gotta, you know, _take the plunge,_ okay? You - you can’t live here. You gotta go home.”

“I--” Bucky almost chokes on the words, but he’s been holding them in all day now, and they’ve gotten too heavy to keep carrying around. He has to tell the truth. “I got no idea what I’m doing.”

“I know how to get them out of people’s bodies safely,” Bruce explains, measuring each syllable carefully, once again projecting calm and kindness. Still, both his words and his gestures indicate that this is a clear and firm eviction from the medical wing. “That’s what I do. But you guys are the dads. I’m not a dad. From here on out, I don’t know what you’re doing _either_. So, uh, you know...goodbye, good luck, congrats. Text me if you hemorrhage or anything.”


	6. 11 Hours, 13 Minutes

**MAY 29, 2017. 9:10 PM**

 

Steve and Bucky board the elevator in silence. Steve has their overnight bag on one shoulder and Lincoln’s diaper bag on the other, which leaves his hands free to maintain their white-knuckled grip on the wheelchair handles. The car somehow feels airless as it makes its impossibly slow ascent to the sixth floor.

Bucky is redressed in soft, clean clothes. In his lap is the unopened box that Sharon left for them, as well as the little bear in the Iron Man suit from Tony. The balloons on the stuffed animal’s wrist loom over their party of three, as gleefully condescending as only a gift from Stark could be. The balloons knock against each other as they deboard the elevator, bouncing and whispering like gossiping old women. Bucky wants desperately to pop all three, but the noise would probably scare Lincoln.

Lincoln is asleep on Bucky’s shoulder. Breathing. Moving every now and then. Very alive and very real.

And completely dependent. Utterly helpless. Nonverbal, non-communicative, unreadable. Gorgeous, priceless, irreplaceable. Fragile. A complete fucking _enigma_.

They step off the elevator and onto their floor, still silent, only to be met with more silence. The shared kitchen is a mess, but the tables and couches in the common area are deserted. The team must have cooked inside and then taken the food out to the lawn to enjoy the Memorial Day celebration. Sam had mentioned earlier that day that he’d do his best to round everyone up and keep them from hovering.

As promised, Steve and Bucky find the residential floor serene and dark, offering quiet and privacy when they need it the most.

And when Bucky wants it the least.

He needs Bruce and Helen. He needs Clint and Laura. He would take _Lang_ right now. He would do anything for a few minutes of loving verbal abuse from Sam. He wishes Sharon and Natasha were here - at least they could commiserate with him about not knowing what to do.

Instead, he has Steve. He loves Steve. He should be happy.

Except that he owes it to Steve to make this good and easy and wonderful, like any father’s first day home with his kid ought to be. Steve is probably carrying the same weight. He wants to reassure Steve by showing him that they _can_ do this - not terrify and disappoint him with the truth.

Halfway down the hall, Steve slows to a gradual halt. The wheelchair stops, too, and Bucky along with it. Lincoln must have been soothed by the constant motion - he squirms and fusses when they stop moving. Bucky tenses, holding him as gingerly and carefully as he would hold an armed bomb.

“You know,” Steve laughs weakly. “This is a lot scarier than I thought it was going to be.”

“I’m scared, too.”

Steve hands fall gently on Bucky’s shoulders and slide down to his biceps, nervously caressing until he manages to still his shaking fingers and give Bucky’s arms a bracing squeeze.

“Come on,” Steve says, trying to sound brash even as his voice wavers. “You had all those little sisters.”

“Not the same.”

Steve’s hands still on Bucky’s shoulders. He concedes with a deep, exhausted sigh. “Yeah. Those sixty-five baby books aren’t helping much either.”

“You read sixty-five baby books?” Bucky hadn’t exactly expected to smile - he just happens to discover one on his face before he can finish asking the question.

“Don’t even get me started on the websites and YouTube videos.”

 _Oh, Steve._ “Help me up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Walking helps. Still got those cramps.”

Sixty-five baby books. That wonderful, gorgeous, sweet moron read _sixty-five_ baby books. Somehow, that reminder of how unbelievably well-prepared Steve is galvanizes Bucky into action. No one could possibly read sixty-five books on pregnancy and childcare without gaining _some_ useful knowledge. Steve has gone above and beyond the call of duty for any new parent.

So, maybe, Steve will know in theory what Bucky never learned. Bucky will know in practice what Steve has never done. Together, _maybe_ they can keep Lincoln alive tonight. This is where Bucky has set the bar, for now.

Steve locks the wheelchair’s breaks, drops their bags on the floor, and lifts Lincoln to his shoulder with the utmost care. He looks panicked and torn for a moment - as if he wants to offer Bucky his arm, but can’t yet bring himself to hold Lincoln with just one hand. Bucky uses the armrests of the wheelchair to push himself up - he would rather Steve used both hands to hold Lincoln, too. Once Bucky is on his feet, Steve offers his elbow apologetically, and Bucky finds that it gives him more than enough support to walk.

Bucky looks around at the apartment like he’s seeing it for the first time. It was only ten months ago that he _was_ seeing for the first time. It looks different now - a little more crowded, a little more shared and well-loved.

And Steve has covered all the outlets. That spacious, utilitarian apartment that he’d welcomed Bucky into, which had borne only the evidence of a single resident and his unending work and total lack of recreation, is now _vibrantly_ different.

There’s a bright new rug on the living room floor and a little mat and mobile for Lincoln. Pillows on the couch. Food in the refrigerator and black and white ultrasound photos and scribbled notes all over the refrigerator door. There are some polaroid photos they’d they’d dared to take during the pregnancy, to preserve those unbelievable months in spite of the dangers of exposing their secret.

Steve’s old office, which had been Bucky’s new bedroom ten months ago, is now _Lincoln’s_ new bedroom, and thanks to T’Challa’s willingness to share in some old-fashioned wall demolition, there’s a new door to Steve and Bucky’s bedroom. There’s a cold cup of coffee on the counter, which Steve must have poured for himself about twenty-one hours ago and then forgotten when he came over to join Bucky in Medical. He had somehow cleaned the whole apartment in the short space of time that Bucky prepped for delivery with Helen and Bruce. Nothing was forgotten, nothing neglected, save for his own cup of coffee.

Steve and Bucky realize simultaneously that they haven’t moved any further into the apartment. They’ve been standing in the middle of the floor at the threshold of the living room for a few minutes now, as Bucky looks around wistfully and Steve stares blankly ahead. Thankfully, Lincoln goes on sleeping through their storm of existential terror, blissfully unaware that his fathers are at a total loss and don’t know how to raise their son.

Steve’s hands shift over Lincoln, clutching him gently like he’s just trying to feel the size and shape of the little body on his shoulder. His fingers worry lovingly at a small foot tucked against his chest. He’s probably wondering - just as Bucky is - if the bandage from that heel-stick is too tight. Steve tips his head slightly to touch his jaw to Lincoln’s soft hat, and Bucky watches his unblinking eyes widen even more.

“We have a baby.” Steve utters those words in an odd voice - as casual as _It’s going to be sunny today,_ and yet he sounds like a distant echo of himself, like he’s speaking to the ghosts of their past selves, sending a message from the unbelievable future.

Bucky feels himself nodding slowly, gradually taking that information in. He imagines the expression on his own face if Steve’s voice really could carry back through the years: the secret delight of the nine year old boy who still played house with his best friend as he learned that their silliest, most far-fetched fantasies would one day take shape; the relief, the total deliverance of the sixteen-year-old who seemed to catch his friend’s asthma if their shoulders brushed; the young sergeant who would picture a framed photograph for the mantel - a proud American family, and he’d wear his dress uniform; the tired Commando who’d weep for days to know he and his guy would be coming home; and the human hiding inside the Soldier, learning he could do more than kill.

What would that Soldier have thought, if he had _known?_ Decades of compliance programming would have melted away. He’d shrug off Hydra and their conditioning, brush it off his shoulders like weightless dead leaves. Right now, Bucky feels like he’d grin with joy every time he watched Zola and Strazds’ scalpels descend.

He wishes he could be there. He wishes he could rub all his happiness and triumph in Arnim Zola’s face. He wishes he could sit with himself in that dark, dirty room, under those surgical lights, smiling, holding his own hand, telling himself how beautiful the end of the story would be. How he’d forget all the pain he’d ever felt. Tell that paralyzed, terrified man on the table how it would all be worth it.

“I can’t believe we have a baby,” Steve says again. A tired, shell-shocked laugh escapes him this time. His hand runs up and down the short expanse of Lincoln’s back, feeling the warmth of life and the movement of breath there to confirm the obvious fact of his existence.

Bucky sighs and shakes his head, staring at the dining room table and remembering the cheesecake they’d eaten with the same fork. “And ten months ago we were having lasagna.”

Steve grins hard and leans backward, eyes disappearing into his smile. Normally, he would have let out that embarrassingly loud laugh, but he spares Lincoln the noise. “Yeah, and forty-one weeks ago we were having something even better.”

“Steve, gross,” Bucky snorts. “Don’t talk like that in front of him.”

“Oh, come on. It’s the miracle of life. He doesn’t care.”

“You know, one of these days, you’re actually going to have to _explain_ the miracle of life to him.”

And at that, the laughter dies on Steve’s lips. He holds Lincoln a little closer, patting him nervously, and together, Steve and Bucky return to standing in the center of the apartment, silent, lost, crippled with fear, and struck dumb with bliss.


	7. 11 Hours, 20 Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to stay home from work today due to a back injury, so literally all I've done is write. Sorry for throwing this shit into the void not proofread - I'll catch typos in a week once I read it on AO3. One more chapter before I go back to the angsty bullshit!

**MAY 29, 2017. 9:17 PM**

 

The silence lasts until Lincoln takes it upon himself to break it. He wakes with a discontented whine, squirming fitfully in Steve’s arms. They’ve been standing still for too long, and he doesn’t like that.

“Do you want to lie down?” Steve asks.

“Not really,” Bucky replies lamely.

“Do you want to _sit_ down?”

“Sure.”

Bucky takes a seat on the couch and tries not to flinch when his back and legs protest. Steve passes Lincoln to him, and then settles in beside the two of them. Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes boring into him - he watches the way Bucky holds Lincoln out in front of him, with Lincoln’s bottom resting on his thighs, one hand under his back, the other hand cradling his head tenderly. Steve studies it, appreciates it, learns it. Bucky bounces his legs a little to keep Lincoln from fussing.

Steve swallows visibly. “What do you want to do?”

“Shower. And I’m hungry.”

“You want me to cook something? What sounds good? Or should I run a bath?”

But Bucky shakes his head, because he has neither the energy nor the desire to move right now. “Not yet.”

“Okay.”

Lincoln makes a long, concentrated effort and manages to open both eyes. It’s dimmer here than it had been in the medical wing. Cool, bright blues filter through the curtains from the Facility’s outdoor lights, and there’s one floor lamp on the other side of the living room, spreading golden light and shadows like butter over warm bread.

Lincoln looks at Steve and Bucky without that comical little squint now. He _stares_ at them, in fact. He seems curious about them. Expectant - like he knows something they don’t, something he’ll have to teach them, and he’s wondering if they’re up to the task of learning.

“Jesus,” Bucky sighs, looking down into his son’s eyes. He feels like he’s staring over the edge of a cliff.

And maybe Lincoln can sense his fear, because he goes back to fussing.

Seconds later, long before Bucky can do anything to placate him, he’s crying, and then he’s wailing at the top of his healthy lungs.

“Oh - oh, baby, what is it?” Bucky whispers clumsily, lifting him up to his chest and pulling away the blanket. He checks Lincoln's diaper and finds it dry. He bounces him, rocks him. Cradles him.

Lincoln cries harder.

“Grab me a towel,” he orders, and Steve rushes to get one. He throws it over his shoulder, leans back, and lifts up his shirt. Lincoln just nursed not even twenty minutes ago; still, Bucky tries to convince him to latch for the next agonizing quarter of an hour. He lets Lincoln lie against his chest. He cradles him again. Holds him like a football. Steve helps him lie on his back, then on his side, but _nothing_ Bucky tries convinces his son to latch.

Lincoln isn’t interested in food. His cries become more desperate by the minute.

Bucky gives him back to Steve, thinking maybe he misses being held by _him_. That does nothing.

So Steve rises and walks with him, around and around the living room, up and down the hallway, back and forth, into the nursery, though the bedroom, into the dark bathroom, even out onto the narrow balcony. He pats Lincoln’s back. Rubs his stomach. Checks that bandage on his foot again. Checks his diaper for the fourth time with none of his earlier reservations. Steve talks to him. Steve sings to him. Steve makes every stupid, funny, sweet, comforting noise he can think of. Lifts him into the air ever-so-carefully. When he returns to the couch, defeated, he’s clutching Lincoln to his chest in a cradle-hold, and Lincoln is still, _still_ screaming.

“I’m sorry - I don’t know what - fuck, I’m sorry,” Steve stammers, and passes him back to Bucky, who has now spent the last twenty minutes alone on the sofa working himself into a panic. He’s leaning forward, every muscle tensed as he watches Steve pass from room to room. Seventy years of trauma are suddenly apparent on his face and weighing on his shoulders. Still, he reaches out for Lincoln as desperately as a drowning man reaches for a dangling rope.

Bucky doesn’t bother with the towel this time. His shirt is stained with milk now, but Lincoln turns his head and outright refuses to nurse. He won’t close his mouth for crying. He’s crying so hard that his tiny, curled fists are trembling. He shakes like a leaf in Bucky’s lap, gasping for breath between bouts of frantic wails.

Steve sits down close to Bucky and stares down at Lincoln, grimacing with unhelpful concern. He tries to rub Bucky’s back, but his hands are clumsy with fear and worry and the touch is anything but soothing. Bucky offers Lincoln his thumbs to hold, because Lincoln will grab them no matter what - it was the very first thing he’d done, the first connection they had made. He would hold onto Bucky’s thumbs with that incredible grip though anything. Bucky had eased Lincoln’s terror through two shots and comforted him like morphine through those terrible, stinging eye-drops, and all he had to do was give him his fingers to hold on to and sweet-talk him afterwards.

But now, Lincoln won’t take them. In fact, he pulls his hands close to his face and balls up his fists. Like he doesn’t even want Bucky to _touch_ him.

And that does it. Bucky gives up and joins in on his son’s inconsolable misery. His face suddenly feels hot, his back bows and the first sobs come in like a hurricane, wracking and violent and painful. He feels them deep in his chest and in the aching emptiness of his belly. It makes the pain between his legs peak sharply. He feels himself bleeding from the physical strain of weeping until the pad in his underwear is just as soaked as his shirt. 

“God _damn_ it!” he gasps out, disgusted by the ugly, wet, slurred sound of his own voice. “Fuck, baby, just tell me what’s wrong. What is it, what do you need?” he begs, lifting Lincoln back up to his shoulder, rocking both himself and his child in the hopes that one of them will be comforted by the repetitive motion. “Goddamnit - I would do _anything,_ baby. I just don’t _know_ \- I’m sorry.”

“Should we call Bruce?” Steve asks warily. He sounds like he’s on the verge of a fit, himself.

“He’s not gonna know what to do, he doesn’t have kids,” Bucky replies spitefully, suddenly resenting everyone in the world who hasn’t been through this.

“What about He--”

“Helen doesn’t have kids!” Bucky snaps.

“Should we call Clint and--”

“I don’t want to call them!” Bucky cries through gritted teeth. “Fuck! I want - I should be able to - we can’t just--”

“ _Peggy_ had--” Steve’s breath hitches and his hands fly to scratch at his scalp and then cover his eyes as the first tears well up. His lips turn bright cherry red and form a thin, trembling frown.

Bucky’s heart aches right along with Steve’s. Yes, Peggy had kids and grandchildren and decades of experience. But she had passed on. Only a year ago. Steve is so flustered and desperate right now that he must have momentarily forgotten she was gone.

Steve’s face flushes with shame and frustration and his mouth twists. He’s given up, too. His voice is so small that Bucky can hardly hear him over Lincoln’s continual screams. “I wish - I could call my mom.”

“Fuck,” Bucky exhales, tears still streaming down his face unchecked. “My mom would just hand him back to me. Fucking  _bitch,"_ he spits. "I want her here so bad."

Steve is too overcome to reply now. He’s sobbing just as loudly as Bucky is.

They’re absolutely pitiful. Unfit. They’re both idiots.

Steve cries until his frustration finally boils over. He sits up and takes out his phone. “We gotta call Bruce. This isn’t right,” he declares tightly.

“He’s just _crying,_ ” Bucky tries to reason through a sob of his own as he settles his writhing son back into his lap. “There’s nothing--”

“Bucky, he’s _sick -_ or _something. Something_ is wrong with him!”

“He was _fine--”_

“Is he running a--?”

Bucky, horrified by the thought of it, has Lincoln’s hat off and a hand pressed to his frowning forehead before Steve can even say the word _fever._

He feels no different than he has all day. “Steve, he’s _not--”_

Crying.

He’s not _crying._

He’s gasping and hiccuping - recovering from that seemingly endless fit - but he doesn’t scream again. Bucky waits a few more seconds, stunned into total stillness, and even those little noises stop. His parents stop crying just as suddenly, and then the three of them are left with no choice but to stare at one another, trading guilty, embarrassed glances.

Steve's jaw drops minutely. His eyes narrow. Slowly, he takes the hat from Bucky’s left hand, turns it right-side-out, and fits it back onto Lincoln's head.

Lincoln’s face crumples once again.

Complete despair.

Steve snatches that hat back off his head, and Lincoln’s face relaxes. He pants happily and stretches his legs to kick against Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky wants to cry _again,_ this time from the sheer relief of _quiet._ His mouth hangs open stupidly. He grabs the little hat away from Steve and holds it up in front of his baby’s contented face. He gives the piece of cloth an accusatory shake. “No hat?”

Lincoln’s legs pedal gently against him. He’s never looked so sweet. Steve throws his hands high in the air as if he’s scored the game-winning touchdown. “No hat!”

“No more hat, baby!” Bucky laughs, wondering if he’s lost whatever was left of his damaged mind, and sweeps Lincoln up to his shoulder to kiss every soft, sparse curl on his now bare head.

“No fuckin’ hats, never again,” Steve proclaims. He grabs the hat from Bucky’s lap, drags the trashcan over from beside the couch, and throws that tiny green cap in like a fastball pitch, like he’s tossing a _grenade_ a full hundred yards. “Gone,” he scowls emphatically, nodding with grim triumph as if he, too, had found the hat unbearably disgusting.

Bucky leans back into the soft couch cushions until Lincoln can rest comfortably against his chest. Lincoln takes hold of Bucky’s thumbs when he offers and Bucky, compelled by that growing sense of madness, dances his son’s hands gently through the air. Another manic laugh bubbles up from his throat. “Christ, Steve--”

“I know.”

“We’re pretty fuckin’ good at this!”

“I know!”


	8. 12 Hours, 30 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Memorial Day 2017 comes to a close, Bucky and Steve settle into bed. They've had a uniquely productive day.

"Are we going to sit here like this all night?"

Bucky barely understands Steve's question - Steve has his face smashed into the couch cushion, which he has removed from the back of the couch. He's slouched against the hard backboard, staring so intently over the edge of his cushion that he might have forgotten his body altogether. Usually, it would make Bucky nervous. But right now, he needs someone to look at him like that. He likes being able to glance up every few minutes at the look in Steve's eyes, so he knows how loved he is. And Bucky wonders if he heard a note of hope in Steve's voice.

"We can't," he sighs.

"What's stopping us?"

"I'm bleeding on the sofa."

"Oh." Steve doesn't argue, but he doesn't move, either. "What do you think he'll be like?" he asks suddenly, sitting up to lean closer to Lincoln's swaddled form as if he'll be able to tell by looking carefully enough.

"I don't know," Bucky says with half a smile. Lincoln takes in a deep breath and sighs against him, and Bucky feels his chest move. "I'm just glad he's here."

"And not crying."

"Shh--you're gonna make him start up again."

"You think...he'll like to dance?"

Bucky's smile broadens. "Let me just ask him."

"Do you think he'll like to draw?" Steve lets go of his other question too easily - this must be what he'd really wanted to ask from the start.

"You could teach him."

Steve grins. "You think he's gonna want to join the team?"

"He better not, he’s not getting a hold of a gun. Not in a million years."

"He can have my shield."

"You have your shield; you still use guns all the time."

"Yeah, but not _well_."

"Steve--" Bucky's head sinks back into the pillow as he laughs, which, unfortunately, brings another rush of blood. He’s already certain the pad that Cho sent him home with gave up back in the elevator. "We gotta move." He makes no effort to move. Steve doesn't, either. "And we need a new couch."

"Let's keep this one until we're done making stains."

"I'm _so_ thirsty, could--"

"What if he's gay?" Steve's voice is suddenly low and worried. A little scared.

Bucky doesn't know what to say to that. Steve shouldn't be _afraid_ of that. He shouldn't care, it shouldn't matter.

Except, Bucky's afraid too. "I don't know."

"People would probably try to say it was our fault. No mother. Hm," Steve sighs. "Would it -- would it _be_ our fault?"

 _Probably_. "I don't know, Steve."

"What if he's transgender? Kids know from a really young age - what if we push too much male-gendered crap on him and he thinks we - or what if we leave everything genderless and he thinks we’re losers or something?"

"I don't know."

"Is that all you're gonna say?"

"When I'm being interrogated, yeah. That's all I say."

"Sorry. But - what if he doesn't feel like he can tell us?"

Bucky had been thinking Steve's questions over seriously, but the moment he takes that one into consideration, he laughs so hard he shakes Lincoln awake. Steve does his best to laugh along, but his heart's not in it. "I think that he will trust us to take it in stride," he answers, swaddling Lincoln a little tighter as he squirms. "And I'll love him no matter what. Even if he makes the same mistakes I did. Gets pregnant before he's married."

"Do you want to get married?" Steve asks hopefully.

"No."

And Steve looks deeply stricken.

"I mean, not right now," Bucky clarifies. "Not until he's older and I can fit back into nice clothes. I’d want to wear a suit, at least. Maybe even a tux," he adds with a smirk.

"Oh."

"Christ, it's ten thirty, I gotta get in the shower," Bucky groans suddenly. "But I--" He gives up and lets his head drop back against the arm of the couch. "I'm going to need a lot of help." He still hates asking, but at least he’s getting a lot of practice at it.

"Well, yeah, you will," Steve says, rising and stretching, finally spurred into action now that Bucky has given him a general direction.

"What are we going to do? We can't leave him."

"Take him into the bathroom with us. We could just put him in his carrier."

"Should we give him a bath first?" Bucky wonders aloud, running his fingers through Lincoln's hair. Some of it is still matted with vernix.

"How are you not _unconscious_?"

"I don't know," Bucky replies honestly. "I can't even think about sleep. I just want to hold him and look at him. Watch him."

"Can I--? Well, never mind," Steve smiles, bowing his head and giving it a little shake.

"You want him?"

"No, you wanted--"

"Steve, you're his dad."

"Oh my God, I know." Steve tenses like he’s about to scream.

"Here, all yours," Bucky laughs and passes Lincoln over carefully. The movement is enough to bring Lincoln back from the verge of another hour-long nap. Steve holds him out, cupping the back of his neck and giving his tiny body textbook-perfect support, just watching him. Lincoln gives him a long, crooked yawn.

Steve grins stupidly. "Wow, he yawned." 

"Aw, Steve,” Bucky groans. “Oh, you're losing it."

"What?” Steve drawls. “My mind? Oh yeah, I fuckin’ know I am. _Hi,_ Lincoln," he whispers, now ignoring Bucky entirely. "Hey, gorgeous boy. You wanna take a bath and then snuggle with us? Yeah?" Lincoln seems to be listening. He doesn't look at Steve, but he raises his sparse eyebrows and wrinkles his forehead, concentrating on the gentle voice above him as if he's beginning to recognize it. “You know, he actually shouldn’t have a bath just yet,” he remarks absently. “We should probably give it about forty-eight hours.”

“Hm,” Bucky says, then smiles.

“What?”

“I never knew that.”

“I mean - I didn’t know it until--”

“Shit, I’m glad you’re here.”

 

Ten minutes later, Lincoln is wiggling happily in his carrier on the bathroom floor. Steve turns the shower on, and between the noise and the room warming up, it doesn’t take Lincoln long to stretch his arms up over his head and drift off to sleep. Steve only stops staring at his son when Bucky limps into the doorway. He hurries to adjust the temperature.

“I’m just going to get in with you, so we can close the curtain. I don’t wanna get him wet,” says Steve. “We can peek out at him as much as you want.” He offers Bucky a steady hand as he steps out of his pants.

“It _still_ freaks me out to take off my shirt,” Bucky says, taking it off anyway. “Holy cow, I look horrible.”

“You know the only thing I think is ugly about you?” Steve says as sternly as he can, holding both of Bucky’s hands as he steps over the edge of the tub. Once Bucky has both feet under him, Steve swats him on the hip reproachfully. “That bad attitude.”

Bucky’s back bows with laughter. “Yes, sir, Captain America. I will fix that. Sir.”

“You better,” Steve reaffirms as he steps into the shower. “Nobody shit-talks James Barnes in my presence.” He shuts the curtain.

Immediately, Bucky peeks out at Lincoln.

He beats Steve to it by only milliseconds.

They laugh at themselves, and then Bucky pitches very gently forward, trusting Steve to catch him. Steve does. Bucky never quite stops laughing. “This is kind of _exciting_ , isn’t it?”

Steve pulls him closer and kisses his temple. “Feels like a dream,” he admits.

“That’s my worst fear,” Bucky mumbles tiredly. “That I’m just going to get pulled back out of cryo and not remember any of this.”

Steve tilts his head back to stare down at Bucky for a moment, then plants another kiss on his head. “Yeah, but you know what?” And a third, for good measure. “You’d find your way back again.”

“Damn, I love you,” Bucky smiles.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m kind of proud of me, too.”

“Alright, Buck, don’t get cocky.”

“Okay.”

 

Half an hour later, they’re dressed for bed in clean clothes - all three of them, almost. Steve is taking his sweet time with Lincoln. Bucky stands in the hall-side doorway of Lincoln’s room, watching his partner’s sanity slip away by the second. He’s so deep in conversation with his son that he hasn’t even fussed at Bucky for not going straight to the bed.

“Are you looking around? This is your room. Yeah. I really hope you like it, buddy.”

Lincoln turns his head and squirms and stretches as Steve puts him into a warm jumper with clumsy, unpracticed hands.

“That’s your crib right there. I don’t think you’re gonna sleep in it tonight, though…”

Lincoln makes a squeaky, restless noise. His lips purse thoughtfully.

“Yeah, because you still eat too much. And it might be kind of scary to be all alone on your first night out. You’ve slept with us every night so far - did you know that? Uh-huh, we’re the guys that kept you awake, talking all the time. You know what’s funny? Sometimes we poked you to see if you’d kick us.”

Lincoln kicks his legs into Steve’s belly right on cue, testing out the jumper as Steve finally gets it zipped up. “Yep. Just like that. And all we had to do was poke you.” Steve gives his son a gentle poke on the knee. Lincoln looks surprised and frowns at him. “Yeah, that was pretty rude of us, I guess.”

“I’m glad you guys are getting along so well.”

“Well, we’re all wearing clothes, now, so we’re doing pretty good -- How come you aren’t in bed? Get in bed. You’re gonna bleed on my carpet.”

“Oh my God, you sound like a dad.”

“Well,” Steve chuckles, scooping Lincoln up onto his shoulder with a grin. “I’m somebody’s dad.”

“What am I?” Bucky sighs, following Steve and Lincoln into the bedroom. “We can’t both be _dad_.”

“Why?”

The plastic mattress protector Steve put down rustles as Bucky finally settles in. “It’s confusing for everybody.” Steve shrugs as he sits down next to Bucky to pass Lincoln over. Lincoln’s jaw is already working and he’s licking his bottom lip. At least Bucky will never have to guess if he’s hungry or not - Lincoln isn’t exactly subtle about communicating it. Steve pulls the blanket from Lincoln’s crib off his shoulder as Bucky lifts his t-shirt up and offers it as a cover. “I’m alright for now,” Bucky smiles, waving it away. “I want to make sure he latches alright. I’m still not great at this.”

“I called my dad ‘papa.’”

“Yeah, I did, too. I think that was a lot more common when we were kids. Sounds kind of old-fashioned now.”

“Well, we’re kind of old-fashioned.”

“I don’t know, this whole set-up’s pretty progressive,” Bucky laughs softly. “But Papa’s fine with me,” he decides, rubbing one hand over Lincoln’s back as he settles in comfortably against him. “Even though _my_ Papa left us on our asses,” he says to no one in particular, then turns to Lincoln. “I won’t run off on you, buddy.”

“Glad you’re past that ‘fight-or-flight’ phase.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky groans.

“Had to follow you around three continents, for two years. You _really_ didn’t want to see me, huh?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“No - no, it’s okay, maybe I was being kind of clingy.”

“Man,” says Bucky distractedly. He’s looking down at Lincoln again, and his heart feels like it’s trying to bounce out of his chest. “He really did turn out cute. I don’t think it’s just me - he’s really cute.”

“Of course he is. We’re cute.”

“He doesn’t look anything like I did when I was a baby. I was chubby. In all the wrong ways.”

“He doesn’t look like me, either. I was a premie, though - I was tiny. My mom said I looked like a little China doll.”

“My ma said I looked like a fat old man when I was a kid. She said when I was first born I looked like a sausage,” Bucky grumbles, and then suddenly he’s distracted again.  “I can’t believe he’s stuck with us.”

“Are we that bad?”

“No - I just mean, he’s _our_ baby. Not...somebody else’s.”

“He is,” Steve agrees, smiling. He looks a little bit light-headed as he lies down next to them.

“I just can’t believe we don’t have to give him back. I mean - he’s ours now. And everything’s going to be different, forever. It’s just crazy.”

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees again. “We are.”

“You know the AVOTS project?” Bucky grins suddenly. Steve flinches against him, craning his neck to look at him curiously. “I’m really glad they did it.”

Steve lies back down, slowly relaxing as he thinks about that. “I guess I am, too, then.” His hand joins Bucky’s on Lincoln’s back. “I’m glad everything turned out the way it did.” Steve knocks his head lightly against Bucky’s. “And I’m glad he doesn’t look like a sausage.”

Bucky feels Steve staring at him. Studying him.

“You tired yet?” Steve asks after a few seconds.

“Not even a little bit.”

Steve goes right on staring. “Me neither.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me so long to finish, but it's finally done! :) I hope it makes you guys feel warm and cozy. Comments are always appreciated, and please subscribe to me if you enjoy these fics - I'm back to making frequent updates lately! Also posting to Tumblr again on @howler23557038, so feel free to follow me for more updates and to submit requests. Thank you guys infinitely for always giving me a warm place to write this stuff, even after I mysteriously disappear for 158 days. <3


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